Denmark Hill - wibbler.com

Yesterday, I have to admit, was out of the ordinary. I’d been needed at a client site in London, so I toddled off to a taxi at around 8.30 to catch the train. The next door neighbour managed to poke his head around the door at the same moment, and so we drowsily shared a taxi into town. The driver looked familiar, I thought as my bleary eyes started to focus. It bothered me all down the hill, and it continued bothering up the next hill. And then, sadly, the reason struck me – it was the same taxi driver who my good friend Jac, months earlier, had annoyed intensely by drunkenly eating a pizza in the car at 2am when being expressly asked not to. I sheepishly paid the fare immediately on arrival – rounding up to the nearest pound as a conciliatory gesture – and scarpered into the train station.
It was here that thinks went a little more unexpected. There, in front of me on the floor, were two ducks. Live ones, thank goodness – quacking and waddling away as if they were rushing to get a vital train. Even more unusual was the fact that no one else was remotely bothered by the spectacle. I attempted to be similarly blase about it, stepping over the waddling creatures just in time to get to the ticket machine before a rather portly gentleman, who looked as if just crossing the foyer would take a good hour. As usual, the train fare defied belief, and feeling financially raped I got a bottle of water and boarded the train to London.
Denmark Hill is not an easy place to get to, and after 2 more train changes I arrived, dripping slightly. A nice black suit combined with sweltering temperatures and a degree of lateness is not ideal, and as I rushed round the corner to their offices, I sipped the final swig of water before bumping into Jo Brand. Unusual, I thought. As I was staring at her, dishevelled, panting and unkempt (me, not her), a man started singing Opera extremely loudly from a balcony to my left, before being bundled inside by two men hiding behind a small balcony-based bush.
I wouldn’t have been surprised at this point if Jeremy Beadle, freshly reincarnated, popped out from behind a car with a microphone in his small hand, grinning inanely. As it was, I had to get on with things and, barely skipping a beat, carried on round the corner.
The rest of the day, thankfully, was less eventful. Apart from the man on stilts, but that’s another story.